Post by Noah Mackenzie on Feb 5, 2014 18:24:54 GMT -5
- Off Camera -
Noah growled low in his throat, the sound more animal than man as the batteries in his cursed iPod died. Just his luck. Another forty-five minutes from Dublin, and he was relegated to silence trapped inside this tin can death trap at thirty-thousand feet.
He stretched his leg out into the aisle, flexing his stiff knee. It ached, consistent pain like an infected tooth, nagging. Bruised- black and blue. It wasn't torn. It wasn't broken. It was just battered. He'd taken worse.
With a sigh he removed the sound-blocking earpieces, and let them dangle around his neck.
"Dude," he heard the whisper of voices from the seat behind and across the aisle from him. "It's him. Seriously."
Noah arched a brow, his ears perked to the conversation.
"It's not him," the other anxious male voice replied, "you think a big star like him would be flying with us? He probably has his own private jet with a harem of big-titted chicks to wait on him hand and foot."
"Yeah," his companion agreed, "probably does. But… it really does look like him. Did you see the tattoo on the back of his neck? Noah's got the same one, man."
By now Noah was cursing his perfect hearing, and the silence within the economy class section of the plane. The seat creaked under his bulk as he shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. It was next to impossible. Noah was a big man- and the seat wasn't. He knew the topic of their discussion, and he found it mildly unnerving. They were talking about him.
Shut down in silence, he breathed the recycled air.
"Nah," the kid behind him elbowed his friend, that cocky know-it-all tone slipping into the words, "it's not him. That guy's too old. Besides, if that was Noah, I'd go up to him and demand he give me back my forty bucks for that shit Pay-Per-View a couple of years ago. Fucking psycho-ass owes us all big time for watching this crap. He needs to retire."
"And now." The other kid agreed.
Noah ground his teeth; a muscle in his jaw began to tick in time with his racing, angry heartbeat as he listened, hands clenching into fists.
"He thinks he's such a badass. I want to see him taken down a notch before they fire his ass. Where's he working now?"
Noah rolled his eyes at the spiteful words, chuckling to himself. He didn't give a rat's ass what the kid thought of him. To him they were just more voices, echoing in his head. He'd heard enough of those to last a thousand lifetimes. He knew people were shit, and most of the time they proved him right.
He leaned forward, tucking his iPod back into the front pouch of his battered backpack. On the way back up, he clipped his forehead on the latch for the dinner tray. Sucking in a breath, he let it out slowly, trying not to bellow in surprise as he pressed the heel of his hand against the red welt forming on his skin. "Motherfuck."
His left hand was clenched so tight his knuckles ached, creaking in protest. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and drive his fist down that kid's throat for the scorn he heard in his voice. Rare moments like this, when he was forced to interact with the public, he felt confined. He should have retired years ago. And yet somehow, he always found himself carrying on. One more year, one more summer.
Basic survival was what he knew now. He breathed in deeply, trying like hell to pull back his bitter anger. One more place, among old acquaintances. He wasn’t even sure why he'd felt the need to send the world a message after nearly four years. Chalk it up to idleness, and that yearning for a real challenge.
He swallowed hard as he cast his memory back to PWI. The faces, the fights. The level of professionalism in the locker room that had been so sadly lacking in the rest of the shitholes he'd languished in since, playing top dog. Playing the mindless machine breaking egos. Maybe he should have retired after all.
"Ask him, man… I dare you. Ask him if he's Noah." The kids were talking again, interrupting his thoughts.
"No way, dude." Raucous laughter spilled up the aisle, making Noah tense. "It's not him. That guy's too gray. Look, he's all…"
Noah leaned forward, pulling his arms out of the black hooded sweatshirt he was wearing, letting them see the telltale tattoos on his arms as he bunched the fleece between his hands before stuffing it in his bag.
"Same tattoos, dude… oh my God. It's him. Fuck! Shut up, Kenny… he'll kill us both."
A small smirk curved Noah's lips as he slouched back in the seat, his knees pushing against the seat in front of him. He was a big man- Airline seats were not made for a man of his sheer mass.
"Do you think he heard us?" One kid hissed to the other, a little drop of fear in his voice.
"Probl'y not." The other kid assured him, their voices fading away as Noah looked out the window, seeing the familiar sights of Dublin through the wispy clouds as the plane began to descend. Noah reached into the front pocket of his bag, and pulled out the dark wraparound shades, settling them on his face. Exhaustion was starting to take it's toll on him, starting with his aching, burning eyes.
"This ain't no country club," he muttered to himself, "this is Dublin." Terrible song lyrics, a grim form of sarcasm in these last moments before the plane arrived at this airport.
The seatbelt light flashed on, and Noah struggled with the buckle, muttering a string of breathless epithets that would make a sailor blush with shame.
As soon as the plane landed, Noah picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he rose to his full height, turning slowly to meet the probing gazes of his two biggest fans. His lips curved in a sardonic smirk, and he lowered the sunglasses down his nose, letting the full force of his angry glare settle on the kids. "By the way," he growled, pushing more bass into his voice as though he was on for the cameras, "I heard every fucking word you two little shits said."
The teenagers looked as though they wanted the floor to swallow them. Noah moved out into the aisle, passing them as they quaked down to their artificially worn out skater shoes. He stopped, turning to look back at them, his voice low. "Thanks. I needed that."
--------------------------
OCW Website Article
Three’s A Crowd
by Miranda Roman
I know this isn’t what many of you are expecting, but I pray you bear with me. With Noah and I still a bit jet lagged from the flight back to Ireland, I decided that this would be the best avenue to fire the first shot. As many of you saw at Massacre this past week, when we told you that Noah was the best in this business, we were clearly not exaggerating. Richard and Irvin Hill can testify now that when that bell rings, the Messiah of Mayhem is every bit as dominant as he has claimed to be. No need to dwell on the past however, as the future is far more important. With Resurrection looming in the near distance, Noah has to make a case as to why President Dean should place him in the match for the OCW Central Championship, and that is exactly what we are planning for him to do next week.
Now, after picking up the inevitable win we were all expecting, Noah showed up later in the night and issued an open challenge to any and everybody who thought they deserved a shot at the Central Championship more than him. Now I don’t know if that is the cause of his match this week, but we’ll just go ahead and assume that it is. Both Bianca Casablancas and Jared Black have thrown their names into the mix, and normally, I would commend them for such drive and ambition, but when Noah is the one they’re climbing into the ring with, I fear the only thing they have to look forward to it disappointment and frustration.
Now, as for Jared Black, after what I saw at Massacre, those are two feelings he seems pretty accustomed to. Bianca on the other hand? She debuted at Massacre successfully, as did Noah. Because of that, I’m going to chalk this decision up to her feeling pretty good about the victory and hopping on the wave of adrenaline that is coursing through her right about now. Sadly though, that is a mistake she is going to soon regret. Now during the course of this article, I will address both of these unlucky individuals on their own, but for right now, allow me to make a couple of points that affect the both of them.
First of all, in case you weren’t paying attention last week, Noah proved that he is the ultimate opportunist, and his experience in this industry, mixed with his raw talent made for a combination that two others were unable to overcome. What makes you two different I ask? What is it that either of you possess that neither Richard nor Irvin had within them? The drive to succeed? The undying desire to prove that you are the best? Well stand in line because if I had a dollar for every person who felt that way, I’d own my own press! Noah proved last week that he can beat two people at once, and do it in only a way that leaves the crowd on their feet. Whether it is elimination rules or not doesn’t matter in the slightest. When the lights are on bright boys and girls, Noah Mackenzie will stand up time and time again and show that there is nobody better, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
Second of all, the man really has nothing to lose right now. President Dean isn’t telling anyone yet who is going to be competing for the top prize in OCW at Resurrection, so it’s not as if Noah has anything to defend. The only thing that he has to worry about is making sure that when that bell rings at the end of the night, it is his arm being raised in victory and it is his name being mentioned when the main event of Resurrection is announced. Because of that, this match is simply going to be another day at the office so to speak, and when in his world, Noah doesn’t falter… Noah doesn’t lose. With that in mind, I again ask you what it is that makes you two different? The faces may change, but the story remains the same. This week at Massacre, Noah is going to put on a clinic, and by the time all of the proverbial dust settles, there will be no doubt about the future of Central Championship.
Now as promised, allow me to break this down a bit further, beginning with Bianca. Now girly, I commend you for what you are accomplishing in this industry. It’s not every day that you see a woman not only taking on the men in the ring, but putting on a dominating performance in the process. Now between you and me dear, there is a level of professional respect and I have no intentions of jeopardizing that. You need to understand that Noah has nothing against you personally, but being in the position you are in right now, he has quite a bit to prove, and he is going to do so at your expense.
When it is all said and done, at the end of the night, I’d go as far as to say that Noah will shake your hand and commend you on the effort you put forth. Don’t mistake his kindness for weakness however Bianca. At the end of the night, you’re still leaving with a loss, plain and simple.
Now as for Jared Black, you too are offered the same respect, but you are considered far less a threat. You proved loud and clear last week that you aren’t the man who is going to stand on top of the mountain. You couldn’t pull out the win the last time you stood between those ropes, and unfortunately for you, this week, you face a different kind of monster. Noah is not Mario Maurako Jared… He’s so much worse.
So in closing, I will say this to you both. I wish you the best of luck with any and every venture you seek out after Massacre, because no matter what you may think of what I’m saying, it doesn’t change the fact that at the end of the night, you both will find yourselves knelt before the Messiah of Mayhem. Sticks and stones will break your bones…
...But Noah’s gonna kill you![/b][/i]
Noah growled low in his throat, the sound more animal than man as the batteries in his cursed iPod died. Just his luck. Another forty-five minutes from Dublin, and he was relegated to silence trapped inside this tin can death trap at thirty-thousand feet.
He stretched his leg out into the aisle, flexing his stiff knee. It ached, consistent pain like an infected tooth, nagging. Bruised- black and blue. It wasn't torn. It wasn't broken. It was just battered. He'd taken worse.
With a sigh he removed the sound-blocking earpieces, and let them dangle around his neck.
"Dude," he heard the whisper of voices from the seat behind and across the aisle from him. "It's him. Seriously."
Noah arched a brow, his ears perked to the conversation.
"It's not him," the other anxious male voice replied, "you think a big star like him would be flying with us? He probably has his own private jet with a harem of big-titted chicks to wait on him hand and foot."
"Yeah," his companion agreed, "probably does. But… it really does look like him. Did you see the tattoo on the back of his neck? Noah's got the same one, man."
By now Noah was cursing his perfect hearing, and the silence within the economy class section of the plane. The seat creaked under his bulk as he shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. It was next to impossible. Noah was a big man- and the seat wasn't. He knew the topic of their discussion, and he found it mildly unnerving. They were talking about him.
Shut down in silence, he breathed the recycled air.
"Nah," the kid behind him elbowed his friend, that cocky know-it-all tone slipping into the words, "it's not him. That guy's too old. Besides, if that was Noah, I'd go up to him and demand he give me back my forty bucks for that shit Pay-Per-View a couple of years ago. Fucking psycho-ass owes us all big time for watching this crap. He needs to retire."
"And now." The other kid agreed.
Noah ground his teeth; a muscle in his jaw began to tick in time with his racing, angry heartbeat as he listened, hands clenching into fists.
"He thinks he's such a badass. I want to see him taken down a notch before they fire his ass. Where's he working now?"
Noah rolled his eyes at the spiteful words, chuckling to himself. He didn't give a rat's ass what the kid thought of him. To him they were just more voices, echoing in his head. He'd heard enough of those to last a thousand lifetimes. He knew people were shit, and most of the time they proved him right.
He leaned forward, tucking his iPod back into the front pouch of his battered backpack. On the way back up, he clipped his forehead on the latch for the dinner tray. Sucking in a breath, he let it out slowly, trying not to bellow in surprise as he pressed the heel of his hand against the red welt forming on his skin. "Motherfuck."
His left hand was clenched so tight his knuckles ached, creaking in protest. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and drive his fist down that kid's throat for the scorn he heard in his voice. Rare moments like this, when he was forced to interact with the public, he felt confined. He should have retired years ago. And yet somehow, he always found himself carrying on. One more year, one more summer.
Basic survival was what he knew now. He breathed in deeply, trying like hell to pull back his bitter anger. One more place, among old acquaintances. He wasn’t even sure why he'd felt the need to send the world a message after nearly four years. Chalk it up to idleness, and that yearning for a real challenge.
He swallowed hard as he cast his memory back to PWI. The faces, the fights. The level of professionalism in the locker room that had been so sadly lacking in the rest of the shitholes he'd languished in since, playing top dog. Playing the mindless machine breaking egos. Maybe he should have retired after all.
"Ask him, man… I dare you. Ask him if he's Noah." The kids were talking again, interrupting his thoughts.
"No way, dude." Raucous laughter spilled up the aisle, making Noah tense. "It's not him. That guy's too gray. Look, he's all…"
Noah leaned forward, pulling his arms out of the black hooded sweatshirt he was wearing, letting them see the telltale tattoos on his arms as he bunched the fleece between his hands before stuffing it in his bag.
"Same tattoos, dude… oh my God. It's him. Fuck! Shut up, Kenny… he'll kill us both."
A small smirk curved Noah's lips as he slouched back in the seat, his knees pushing against the seat in front of him. He was a big man- Airline seats were not made for a man of his sheer mass.
"Do you think he heard us?" One kid hissed to the other, a little drop of fear in his voice.
"Probl'y not." The other kid assured him, their voices fading away as Noah looked out the window, seeing the familiar sights of Dublin through the wispy clouds as the plane began to descend. Noah reached into the front pocket of his bag, and pulled out the dark wraparound shades, settling them on his face. Exhaustion was starting to take it's toll on him, starting with his aching, burning eyes.
"This ain't no country club," he muttered to himself, "this is Dublin." Terrible song lyrics, a grim form of sarcasm in these last moments before the plane arrived at this airport.
The seatbelt light flashed on, and Noah struggled with the buckle, muttering a string of breathless epithets that would make a sailor blush with shame.
As soon as the plane landed, Noah picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he rose to his full height, turning slowly to meet the probing gazes of his two biggest fans. His lips curved in a sardonic smirk, and he lowered the sunglasses down his nose, letting the full force of his angry glare settle on the kids. "By the way," he growled, pushing more bass into his voice as though he was on for the cameras, "I heard every fucking word you two little shits said."
The teenagers looked as though they wanted the floor to swallow them. Noah moved out into the aisle, passing them as they quaked down to their artificially worn out skater shoes. He stopped, turning to look back at them, his voice low. "Thanks. I needed that."
--------------------------
OCW Website Article
Three’s A Crowd
by Miranda Roman
I know this isn’t what many of you are expecting, but I pray you bear with me. With Noah and I still a bit jet lagged from the flight back to Ireland, I decided that this would be the best avenue to fire the first shot. As many of you saw at Massacre this past week, when we told you that Noah was the best in this business, we were clearly not exaggerating. Richard and Irvin Hill can testify now that when that bell rings, the Messiah of Mayhem is every bit as dominant as he has claimed to be. No need to dwell on the past however, as the future is far more important. With Resurrection looming in the near distance, Noah has to make a case as to why President Dean should place him in the match for the OCW Central Championship, and that is exactly what we are planning for him to do next week.
Now, after picking up the inevitable win we were all expecting, Noah showed up later in the night and issued an open challenge to any and everybody who thought they deserved a shot at the Central Championship more than him. Now I don’t know if that is the cause of his match this week, but we’ll just go ahead and assume that it is. Both Bianca Casablancas and Jared Black have thrown their names into the mix, and normally, I would commend them for such drive and ambition, but when Noah is the one they’re climbing into the ring with, I fear the only thing they have to look forward to it disappointment and frustration.
Now, as for Jared Black, after what I saw at Massacre, those are two feelings he seems pretty accustomed to. Bianca on the other hand? She debuted at Massacre successfully, as did Noah. Because of that, I’m going to chalk this decision up to her feeling pretty good about the victory and hopping on the wave of adrenaline that is coursing through her right about now. Sadly though, that is a mistake she is going to soon regret. Now during the course of this article, I will address both of these unlucky individuals on their own, but for right now, allow me to make a couple of points that affect the both of them.
First of all, in case you weren’t paying attention last week, Noah proved that he is the ultimate opportunist, and his experience in this industry, mixed with his raw talent made for a combination that two others were unable to overcome. What makes you two different I ask? What is it that either of you possess that neither Richard nor Irvin had within them? The drive to succeed? The undying desire to prove that you are the best? Well stand in line because if I had a dollar for every person who felt that way, I’d own my own press! Noah proved last week that he can beat two people at once, and do it in only a way that leaves the crowd on their feet. Whether it is elimination rules or not doesn’t matter in the slightest. When the lights are on bright boys and girls, Noah Mackenzie will stand up time and time again and show that there is nobody better, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
Second of all, the man really has nothing to lose right now. President Dean isn’t telling anyone yet who is going to be competing for the top prize in OCW at Resurrection, so it’s not as if Noah has anything to defend. The only thing that he has to worry about is making sure that when that bell rings at the end of the night, it is his arm being raised in victory and it is his name being mentioned when the main event of Resurrection is announced. Because of that, this match is simply going to be another day at the office so to speak, and when in his world, Noah doesn’t falter… Noah doesn’t lose. With that in mind, I again ask you what it is that makes you two different? The faces may change, but the story remains the same. This week at Massacre, Noah is going to put on a clinic, and by the time all of the proverbial dust settles, there will be no doubt about the future of Central Championship.
Now as promised, allow me to break this down a bit further, beginning with Bianca. Now girly, I commend you for what you are accomplishing in this industry. It’s not every day that you see a woman not only taking on the men in the ring, but putting on a dominating performance in the process. Now between you and me dear, there is a level of professional respect and I have no intentions of jeopardizing that. You need to understand that Noah has nothing against you personally, but being in the position you are in right now, he has quite a bit to prove, and he is going to do so at your expense.
When it is all said and done, at the end of the night, I’d go as far as to say that Noah will shake your hand and commend you on the effort you put forth. Don’t mistake his kindness for weakness however Bianca. At the end of the night, you’re still leaving with a loss, plain and simple.
Now as for Jared Black, you too are offered the same respect, but you are considered far less a threat. You proved loud and clear last week that you aren’t the man who is going to stand on top of the mountain. You couldn’t pull out the win the last time you stood between those ropes, and unfortunately for you, this week, you face a different kind of monster. Noah is not Mario Maurako Jared… He’s so much worse.
So in closing, I will say this to you both. I wish you the best of luck with any and every venture you seek out after Massacre, because no matter what you may think of what I’m saying, it doesn’t change the fact that at the end of the night, you both will find yourselves knelt before the Messiah of Mayhem. Sticks and stones will break your bones…
...But Noah’s gonna kill you![/b][/i]
